


Persephone's Morning After

by LayALioness



Series: Stories of Mine (myths, re-imagined) [1]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:04:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4118002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Persephone coming back from the Underworld. Back, not home.</p><p>Home is a tricky concept for her, these days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persephone's Morning After

Persephone tugs her shawl a little tighter. The sun is on the tail end of rising, and the sidewalk she’s on is still in the shade. It’s spring, technically, but there’s still snow clutching at the edges of lawns and gutters, and her arms are starting to numb. Little clouds erupt in her face with each breath, but it’s been so _long_ since she’s been able to take in fresh air, even cold morning air, and so she’ll take what she can get.

Birds are singing from the telephone wires and maple branches, and it’s been a long time since she’s heard that too. A squirrel dashes home just in front of her. She presses her palm to the bark of a tree as she passes—it’s cold too, but it’s alive and it throbs at her touch, almost like a cat purring.

With each step she takes, the air warms around her, and the snow begins to melt and trickle down into the earth and pavement. She avoids the cracks in the sidewalk, stretching and shortening her steps whenever necessary. It is an old superstition, and a false one, but it helps take her mind off of what waits for her at home.

Her mother, for one. Probably still dressed in her robe, sitting at the kitchen table with two cups of coffee still hot. Cinnamon rolls cooling on the stovetop. Fresh blackberries plucked from the bushels outside.

The sun finds its place at last and stills. Persephone blinks at the light and looks down, eyes almost too sensitive to bear it. Her eyelashes feel stiff with sleep and mascara, clumped together over time. Days run differently in the underworld—six months stretch along as a single night, until she finally wakes to walk back the next morning. Her make up is probably smeared and her lips chapped from the cold air of winter. She’d rubbed them with aloe, but that could only do so much. Her voice will be rough, partly from last night’s alcohol, and partly because she just woke up. She’s wearing the same clothes she left home in—sure to make her mother frown—with new and old wrinkles and more than a few stains from coal. Coal dust coats everything in the underworld, and she always finds herself washing it out of her hair for months. Secretly, she likes it; it smells like him.

She’s nearing her house, now. An unassuming Craftsman at the tip of her street. It’s a hill, with three separate staircases leading to the front door, all tacked together with old wood and older nails and a handrail made out of old water pipes. Persephone sticks a hand in the pocket of her dress, filled with pomegranate seeds. He’d slipped them in from behind as she’d hurried out the door that morning. His mouth had pressed to the skin beneath her ear as he’d whispered, _a little taste of home for while you’re away_.

He did that often. Left her things, to ease her worry or calm her or simply make her laugh. Paints made from thistles and winter roses. A necklace of white gold and ancient keys. A green cloak to remind her of the forest. Persephone thinks of coffee just the way she likes it, hazelnut with two creams and four sugars, and fresh baked cinnamon rolls. Her mother and husband would get along so well if they ever decided to stop hating each other.

Persephone climbs the steps on the balls of her feet. Her boots are worn and comfortable, but it has been a long walk and her soles are aching. A patch of daffodils spring up by her foot, announcing her arrival. They’re more a formality than anything; her mother will already know she is here. Along the porch rafters, a dozen wind chimes whisper a symphony. _Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back._

Not _welcome home_. Home is a tricky concept for her, these days. Like most things about her life, it cleaves her heart in two.

She combs a hand through her hair self-consciously. She’d let Psyche hack at it before leaving for the last winter, and it’s grown a few inches since then. Now it hangs at her shoulders, tangled and pale and coated in dust. Her fingers come away smudged black.

She knows she probably smells like death and cherry vodka and dog, but there’s not much to do about that now. She’s itching for a hot shower and clean sheets, but she knows her mother is waiting in the kitchen. With coffee and breakfast and the slight frown that still hasn’t faded since the wedding, and it’s been centuries. _Honestly_ , sometimes Persephone wonders how her mother can manage such a longstanding grudge.

Persephone pauses at the door to pop a seed between her lips. She slides it under her tongue and takes a breath. Several breaths. She opens the door and walks through.


End file.
